


All Tied Up

by dizzzylu



Series: Mating Games Submissions [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 20:58:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/765941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzzylu/pseuds/dizzzylu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Best birthday," Stiles says around a grin, nose pressing into Derek's neck. "Am I right?"</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Tied Up

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write this for a _very_ long time. Finally, I found the perfect ~~excuse~~ time.

The scarves are damp from Stiles' sweat, blood red turning near-black at the edges, and Derek licks at them, letting the flat of his tongue drag over Stiles' overheated skin. Stiles whimpers, hands flexing in their bindings, the tendons shifting enough for Derek to feel them against his lips.

"You have no idea what you look like," he says, nose sliding through the sweat at Stiles' temple, tracing the edge of the blindfold, also damp, fit snug over Stiles' eyes. Stiles tilts his face toward the sound of Derek's voice, mouth open and panting, spit drying at the corners. There's a smudge of dried come there, still, from when Derek fucked his mouth, too far for his tongue to reach. Derek cleans it up with a slow drag of his tongue, heavy and rough. Eager, Stiles arches into it, whimpering until Derek gives in and kisses him deep and wet and lush. Kisses him until Stiles' chest hitches between Derek's legs, desperate for air. 

"Get back here," Stiles rasps, lips red and abused. Their flush matches the red-raw patches of skin on Stiles' chest and belly and thighs. The places Derek spent quality time nuzzling until Stiles thrashed out as best he could, choking on his giggles. 

Derek taps him on the lips, once, in admonishment, and rises up on his knees. The air in the room is warm and humid, reeking of sex, but still cool compared to Stiles' skin, and it's a brief but welcome relief for his thighs as Derek knee walks backward, careful to jostle Stiles' cock a little on the way down.

It's hard and leaking, flushed bright red and hot to the touch. It's been that way for over an hour now, Stiles brought to the edge time and time again by Derek's mouth or hand or both. A fleshjack Derek only used for a few minutes because it was too artificial; he couldn't feel the throb of Stiles' pulse though the plastic and silicone, couldn't trace the prominent vein with his thumbnail. Once he tossed it away, he let one claw inch out and dragged the tip of it in maddening circles around Stiles' slit. It took mere seconds for Stiles' heart to kick into a gallop, for his lungs to quit working, every muscle in him freezing to hold off his orgasm. Derek was so proud of him in that moment. 

Now, he licks Stiles' cock, tracing the length of it with just the barest hint of tongue. Stiles feels it anyway and shudders, panting, "please, please, please" barely loud enough for Derek to hear.

Sitting up, Derek takes a deep breath and studies the sight before him. Stiles' body is a trembling mess, from his stretched out arms to his tied down legs, every inch of skin covered in a heavy sheen of sweat. Both nipples are red and puffy and his whole body has taken on a rosy blush that Derek followed the progress of with his fingers some time ago.

The best part of Stiles, though, is the mess on his stomach; his own precome and Derek's come and their sweat all mixing together in swirling patterns Derek can't help dragging a fingertip through. Stiles sucks on it greedily, every time Derek offers it, whimpering at the slight weight Derek leans into Stiles' pelvis, against the base of his cock.

Stiles sobs Derek's name, then, and arches his head back, baring the column of his throat, the skin there a mottled red-purple-blue from Derek's scruff and hands and mouth.

"Yes?" Derek asks, leaning closer, rocking his hips a little, subtle and quiet. He's soft, still, but he could get there again, maybe. He can't decide, yet, if he wants to let Stiles come or not. It's a tough decision.

"Derek, please," Stiles says. His voice is cracked raw and his lips are dry. Stiles tongue darts out to try and wet them, but it doesn’t help. With one hand pressed low on Stiles' stomach, just above the base of his cock, Derek reaches for the glass of ice water on the nightstand and offers Stiles the straw. He sucks it up like air, through a groan, until it's gone, Stiles' unwilling to give up even after the straw makes that hollow rattling sound. "Thank you," he says, stronger now, once the glass is back on the table.

"You're welcome." Derek lowers himself down, down, onto his elbows, until they're pressed together from pelvis to chest, Derek only holding himself up enough to study Stiles' face, to nose at the tear tracks on his cheeks. "Do you think you could wait?" Derek asks – purrs, really – into Stiles' ear, pleading and demanding in turns. "Let me get hard again? So we can come together?" He circles his hips a few times, which knows is unfair, but he can't help it. He wants everything, all the time. And knowing Stiles wants to give it to him doesn't help matters.

Derek hears the headboard creak, can hear Stiles' _fingers_ creak, tightening around the scarves at his wrists. His breathing is shuddery, his heart pounding hard against Derek's chest. "I don't-- Derek, I-- " His throat clicks around a swallow, then another, and the decision is made.

"Okay," Derek sighs, sitting up, smoothing a palm along Stiles' side. "It's okay." He settles onto his side next to Stiles and presses in close, making sure they touch as much as possible. With Derek's head on his hand, elbow propped up the mattress, Stiles can tip to the side a little bit and rest his forehead against Derek's cheek. "Maybe next time," Derek suggests, trying not to sound too sad about it.

Stiles' agreeable humming is cut off by a stifled whimper as Derek wraps his hand around Stiles' cock. The skin is fever-hot and sticky, and Stiles shudders at the first slow pull, keening low between gritted teeth.

"Don't," Derek orders, flicking a nail, blunt and human, over Stiles' slit. "You're going to scream. It's okay, I've got you. No one can hear you." Not this deep in the woods, anyway.

"Derek, I can't," Stiles sobs, a noise that echoes the throb in Stiles' cock. Derek understands what Stiles is trying to say; it feels so good it hurts, which is why they do this. Not often, but enough for Stiles to shut off his mind a little. To wear him down to base instinct. It's why Derek's hand is a loose fist, his rhythm slow. He has to draw the orgasm out of Stiles to make it good, not let it rip through them both like a freight train. 

The bottle of lube is still next to Stiles' hip, open and dripping from when Derek used it earlier to finger Stiles open, and he uses it now, squirting some onto Stiles' dick. Stiles hisses at first, the lube cool to his sensitive skin, probably, but sighs at the first glide of Derek's hand. His hips start moving, then, as much as they can, into the circle of Derek's fingers. Little hitching jerks that can't really be doing much other than moving because that's what they do. _Would_ do, if Stiles weren't tied down.

Derek is too focused on the shiny head of Stiles' cock to catch the first trip-stutter of Stiles' heart, but he hears the subsequent hiccups and speeds up accordingly, fingers tightening into a twist at the crown. Every time Stiles exhales, it's like it's been punched out of him, loud and fast, followed by a growl or grunt. Sometimes a whimper. 

Stiles' stomach quivers before it happens, muscles firming up for the final push, and then he's coming on a wail, something that sounds like Derek's name. Each pulse of come is a dull throb against Derek's palm, and it goes every-fucking-where; Derek's chin and Stiles' cheek and eyelashes. It's all over Stiles' chest and Derek's hand, sticky and hot and salty on Derek's tongue. He jacks Stiles until long after he should, until Stiles breaks and begs for Derek to stop touching him, the words blurry around the edges. And though it's tough, Derek rolls off him in one smooth motion.

It's easy after that: untie Stiles' arms, then his ankles, another drink of water, and the warm washcloth. Stiles is ragdoll, after, limbs staying wherever Derek puts them. But there's a smile on his face, and his heart is slow and steady; Derek's not worried.

He leaves the blindfold on even as he climbs back into bed, easing Stiles under the covers so he doesn't get chilly on the come-down, and wraps one arm around his waist to wait. He keeps his knuckles light and his strokes even, a barely-there touch to help ground Stiles in the here and now.

Once Stiles starts moving, nothing more than his foot tapping against Derek's ankle, Derek slides the blindfold off, but keeps his hand cupped over Stiles' eyes until slim fingers wrap around his wrist and tug, gentle but demanding.

"Good?" Derek asks, tired, now. Sated and happy.

Stiles hums an agreement, eyes bright but soft, glazed a little, still. "Best birthday," Stiles says around a grin, nose pressing into Derek's neck. "Am I right?"

"Yeah," Derek says, pulling him closer. "Yes."

**Author's Note:**

> Dunno if you've heard, but there's an auction going on, to help out the OTW/AO3. [Come bid on me](http://ao3auction.tumblr.com/dizzzylu), if you want :)
> 
> Also, you can find me on [tumblr](http://dizzzylu.tumblr.com). I reblog a lot of pics. Most of them Dylan. It's a problem.


End file.
